The non-constructive solution
by The Great Switcheroo
Summary: A fic(let?) set in season 3, after Violet, Mrs. Hughes and Edith confront Isobel about Ethel and getting her a new job in another town. The way Isobel quietly fumed was quite inspiring :)


_Six and a half. One, two, three, four… yes, six and a half. Maybe seven, if she took smaller steps. Six and a half steps in length, four and a half steps in width. _

She was pacing. She never paced. She always said what she was thinking, when she was thinking it. She even took some sort of pride in it, too… it was, in her eyes, something that set her apart from the usual, antiseptic way of communicating that everyone seemed to prefer here and that got on her nerves so much. Yes, she always said what she was thinking. Well, in normal situations. And with normal people. But not now. Not with Mrs. Hughes there, not with Edith present. And besides, the shock, the betrayal she felt – _is that too strong a word…?,_ she wondered - was just too much. To think that…

She stopped for a fraction of a second and took a deep breath. _Yes, that's better._ She walked – _one, two, two and a half_ – to the window and saw the indistinct shape of an automobile parked in front of the gate and Ethel walk briskly towards the house. She would rein it in. She would remain composed.

"Lady Grantham, ma'am."

She remained by the window, not turning around.

"Yes, thank you, Ethel. You can go to bed now, I won't be needing you any more."

"Very well, ma'am."

She heard a slight creak - _Molesley never got around to fix that damned floor board…_ - and then she felt her perfume – that ambiguous, decadent, almost indecent scent she sometimes insisted on wearing, an expensive, heavy mixture that was anything but ladylike and proper. She tried to focus on the base notes, in an attempt to keep her growing irritation at bay. _Let's see - musk, sandalwood… and civet, of course. With just a hint of lily-of-the-valley… as if that fooled anyone. _

"Good evening, Isobel."

She remained quiet.

"I wanted to come down tonight rather than wait until tomorrow for this, because I live under the impression that our most recent conversation has… upset you to some extent."

"One would think so, yes."

"I assure you, I have chosen that course of action because it seemed, at the time, the best solution for Ethel. And I firmly believe it to be so, if…"

She felt her temples pounding. _Composure be damned._

"You always seem to be the holder of the absolute truth, don't you? Always have the best _solutions_ to everyone's problems! Always controlling, always manipulating, always ready to turn things in ways that suit your purposes, whatever they may be!"

"I am aware of the fact that it may seem like…"

"Are you? Are you really? Has it ever occurred to you that maybe there are reasons behind other people's actions? That you have no right to dictate what other people should do? That we… _**I **_do not tolerate other people making decisions for myself?"

She turned suddenly, her chest heaving with frustration and irritation, ready to continue with her outpouring, only to find Violet closer than she had expected. With her eyes, she followed an elegant hand, clad in a sheer lace glove, as it rested on her arm and gently pushed her – _one, one and a half_ – into the back of the sofa. She felt the other hand on the nape of her neck and in her hair, pulling her in, and then Violet's lips on her own, intrusive, demanding, almost crushing. She closed her eyes and instinctively knew what would come next, and breathed in as she felt Violet's body coming flush against hers, as intrusive and demanding as her kiss, and let her senses be assaulted by the same maddening scent that she was analysing earlier.

"Always an effective way to end a particularly annoying conversation, don't you find?", said Violet, a few moments later.

She looked up, but avoided her eyes, focusing instead on the intricate details of Violet's lace collar. She tried to collect her thoughts, to force herself to stop analysing the heady mix of emotions that seemed to always flood her whenever something like this happened – somehow Violet managed, with a single, unusual move or suggestion, to infuriate, excite, inspire, and arouse her, sometimes – _the best of times, in all fairness_ – all of the above, simultaneously.

"It may be effective, but it rarely provides a constructive solution to the underlying problem", she said, finally looking into Violet's eyes.

"Always worrying – about problems, about consequences, about everything, my dear Isabeau", came Violet's amused reply. "We'll sort out Ethel's predicament tomorrow, if you accept my luncheon invitation, of course", she continued, a brief glint of mischief in her eyes.

"We need to sort out other things as well", she said, watching Violet as she reached for the cane that was propped against the sofa. "Like that claim of yours that I hate to face facts, for instance."

"All in due time, I see no reason why we should burden ourselves now with such contentious matters", Violet replied. "I've always found that the best answers are encountered when taking the counsel of one's pillow."

And with that, Violet left the room with a sudden rustling of lace and taffetas, leaving her still leaning on the back of the sofa.

Isobel straightened up her dress and went once again to the window, smiling a brief, private smile.

She had forgotten to count.


End file.
